Broken Words - Paul McCartney, John Lennon

Lack in Peace, Present in Grief

The morning sky blazed before him, making his already blurring vision swim. His sleep had been replaced with grief and memories he could not escape. Therefore, Paul sat alone, eyes on the small window he had taken up to be his sanctuary. He had faked sleep when asked if he was awake by Linda, whom had gone down to pick up a quick breakfast without him. Any minute now, she would be returning. Any minute now, the dreadful tears had to stop.

"Paul, remember when we first met? It was a day of wonder, a day I would never have expected and yet I will never forget it. I know that, you know that, we all know that."

"Paul? What are you doing on the floor?"

He heard Linda lower the hotel key onto the table. Her footsteps seemed to echo in the small room. They had agreed on the size of room, as it would be a distraction from - from-

"Are you alright?" Linda sat down beside him.

"I'm fine, fine, just fine."

"You're not, dear, I hate to break it to you, but you are not fine."

"No one is fine," Paul said.

"I know." He felt her hand gently touch his arm. "But you can at least eat."

"Yeah." Still, he did not move from the floor.

"They had your favorite down in the café."

"Fish and chips?" Paul asked in a somewhat joking manner, though fish and chips did not sound unappealing.

"No." He could hear her smile. "Scrambled eggs."

"You do have lovely legs," he commented.

"As random as that was, thank you." She took his hand in hers, her hand in his, and the two lifted one another to their feet. 

Following breakfast, Paul had returned to the window overlooking New York City, this time with Linda beside him. He had his arm around her shoulders, holding her close. Linda had one hand on his arm. Her left hand was on his shoulder. He could still feel the presence of how near she had been to him when her own tears stained the front of his white shirt. She had cried for a short while. He had shed his own tears, had cried some more himself. Comfort had been absent. Not even a few kisses could do anything. They had cried for who knows exactly how long. One moment, the tears were there. The next, they were dried up, ready to fall still, but he time for that was not the present.

"We were supposed to be spending Christmas with him, too," Paul mused. "And, by God, that is not going to be an option, is it?"

"It could still be. As long as you and Yoko don't bick..."

"As long as she does not try to comfort me and all that sh-"

"Paul!" Linda said. "I know how you and Yoko are, but, really, she lost John, too."

"Yeah, those 'fans' at the gates had lost him as well. Doesn't mean I should comfort them or anything."

Linda's hands dropped from his torso. She stood up, and, without looking behind him, Paul knew she had left him.

"For goodness sake!" Paul rose to his knees, running a hand through his hair, present in a bed head manner nevertheless. He knew he had been stupid to have brought Yoko into the conversation. Linda knew quite well how Paul felt about John's widow. Widow...yes, that was correct. John was...dead. Dead. The word struck him funny. Paul reached up on the dresser, fingers grasping a box of cigarettes. He slipped the filter in his mouth, and lit the other end. He had not had a cigarette in a while. He needed it now, he felt, as he breathed through the light smoke. John was dead, Yoko his widow. Ah, that was right. He chuckled. The atmosphere in the room had gone grim and smoky, while his mind traveled to and from distant roads of death and grief. He did not feel the emotions, not necessarily. The emotions had become a part of him. Always there, always. They would never leave him. He dwelled on that thought as the room shifted...